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500 (Thome, Rodriguez and Thomas)

by James Finn Garner

500
Is such an exquisite digit–
The miles in a Daytona race,
Fortune‘s biggest firms anyplace,
And Fiat’s postwar car-midget.

500
The dingers hit by “Big Hurt” Frank,
Of the sweet stroke and bitter knees,
A-Rod, whipping boy for the Yankees,
And Thome, svelte as a Sherman tank.

500
Their several teams never captured it all.
The sluggers pushed on in good years and bad,
Taking what pleasure there was to be had
In campaigns of .500 ball.

500!
Carved into history like Cy Nostradamus.
As Father Time erodes, hobbles and tames,
That mark will always shine next to these names.
500 cheers for Thome, Rodriguez and Thomas!

Posted 10/16/07 

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Leo’s Lament

By George Castle

There once was a coach named Mazzone
Whose teachings fit teams to a tee,
But Orioles changes left him all alone
And he got axed by boss Andrew B.

Posted 10/15/07

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The Blue Jay Way

by James Finn Garner

The Jays landed simply a smidge above .500.
Their season has strolled by, not thundered.
No highs of joining a pennant race,
No lows of wallowing in last place,
No untoward attention-getting,
No clubhouse brawls, no fretting
About performance enhancers,
No dog fights, gunplay, or nude dancers.

A campaign so nice and proper
Would never face charges of treason.
How very Canadian of the Jays
To enjoy such an adequate season!

Posted 10/11/07 

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O Crap

by Stu Shea

Though their legacy is royal and their ballpark always fine,
It’s been a rocky season for the Baltimore nine.
Their loudest fan passed away, the manager was fired,
And even longtime fans are getting tired.
Drug rumors dog the clubhouse; they lost 30-3;
And they’ve been no-hit by a Red Sox rookie.
One more losing year and small crowds at the park,
This franchise walks, blindfolded, in the dark.
As long as Peter Angelos renews his owner’s plates,
The devastation won’t abate.

Posted 10/4/07 

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A-Riddle: Who Am I?

by Hart Seely

In spring I do well,
And in June, I excel,
All summer, my output is keen.
When colder it grows,
My uncertainty shows,
And in autumn, I’m one for fourteen.

In April I soar,
Through July, my friends score,
All summer, I’m high as the sky.
Then comes the post,
When I’m needed the most,
And in autumn, not one RBI.

I rumble through June,
And they pay me the moon,
All summer, my teammates show faith.
Then the leaves start to fall,
And my stick becomes small,
And in autumn, they bat me at eighth.

Taken from Hart’s new book, Mother Goose Goes to Washington: Nursery Rhymes for the Political Barnyard, from Simon & Schuster.

Buy it now!

Posted 10/3/07.